


Security Blanket

by YellowMustard



Series: 18 [2]
Category: Dear Evan Hansen - Pasek & Paul/Levenson
Genre: A follow-up to 18, Boys In Love, Connor has a Bad Night, Connor has a KEY, Established Relationship, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mild Angst, More sleepy feels bc I have a very limited creative scope ok, Two Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-02
Updated: 2020-05-20
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:54:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23963455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YellowMustard/pseuds/YellowMustard
Summary: Connor Murphy is not breaking and entering. He's definitely not.(OR: It's a Bad Night, and Connor decides to make use of his recent birthday gift from Evan. Two-shot~)
Relationships: Evan Hansen/Connor Murphy
Series: 18 [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1727644
Comments: 64
Kudos: 264





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SlowSimpleMelody](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SlowSimpleMelody/gifts).



> Hi everyone! 
> 
> So after I posted 18 I was like. Actually OVERWHELMED with the response I got?? Like. I love you guys?? So much??
> 
> But I got this one comment from SlowSimpleMelody with these GORGEOUS headcanons about Connor having a key to Evan's place, and I just couldn't get em out of my head until I WROTE THEM. SlowSimpleMelody has also been so supportive and lovely since like, the very beginning when I first started (very nervously!) posting stuff on here. Idk who you are fam, but I appreciate you! So this is a gift 4 u :)) <3 Hope I did your idea justice!
> 
> Highly recommend reading 18 first as this directly references that one a LOT and will continue to do so in part two! - Yes there will be a part two - this one is mostly just Connor Bein Sad, but the comfort will kick in next chapter ;) 
> 
> TW: Connor is Not Very Well in this, so some mild references to thoughts of self-harm, dissociation, mild anxiety/paranoia/helplessness.
> 
> Tumblr: @theyellowestmustard

* * *

Connor Murphy is  _ not _ breaking and entering.

He's  _ not _ . He's definitely not.

It might  _ look _ like he is. He's dressed in his usual varying shades of dark, lurking outside the house like a hesitant shadow, practically dissolving into the backdrop of the moonless sky. He keeps glancing furtively over his shoulders, like he's afraid of being caught breaking and entering, even though Connor Murphy is not breaking and entering.

He just. He knows how sketchy this would look to a neighbor, or a passerby or whatever. He knows.

But there's nobody around to see him. It's after midnight, and the streets are deserted and cold, with the dim fuzz that comes along with an empty night sky; the graininess of your brain trying to make sense of such a vast empty space.

It's kind of spooky, how silent it is.

Connor needs to just do it. He can't stay out here forever. He's got goosebumps.

He's just. Nervous.

He's never done this before.

"I'm not breaking and entering," whispers Connor, who is definitely not breaking and entering.

He's not.

He’s just... _ entering.  _

He doesn’t  _ need  _ to break anything to enter.

Because Connor has a key.

It may as well be a crowbar. It feels leaden; heavy and cold and  _ illegal _ , and he squeezes it tightly until it heats and he feels the jagged indentations striping his palm.

Fuck, why does it feel like he's doing something so  _ wrong?  _ Why does he feel so uneasy, so sick with guilt? 

What the hell is he afraid of?

There's a sudden wild burst of noise from behind him; a sharp clang and then a skittering sound, and Connor jumps a fucking mile. He whirls around in terror, heart galloping and feeling his soul straight-up leave his body; right out through his open mouth like a little white puff of smoke.

But it's not his soul; just his own breath in the freezing night air.

Also, it's just a raccoon on the lid of a garbage can across the street.

Jesus fuck.

_ Get a fucking hold of yourself _ .

This isn't a big deal. It's not. Certainly not big enough of a deal that Connor's hands are shaking and his mouth is dry and he's getting spooked by fat suburban raccoons. It's like. A small deal, really. A tiny deal. The teensiest shred of deal.

Evan has told him that this is okay. Evan has given him express permission to do this. _"Anytime,"_ Evan had said. _"Literally any time. That's like...the whole point."_

Like. Evan might not know that Connor is like...outside his house right now at this  _ exact _ moment _. _

But Connor did text first, in his defense. 

Twelve times.

Which is like. An Evanism, for sure. Not Connor's usual short-and-sweet at all.

_ hey are u awake _

_ Its late and ur probably asleep but on the off chance ur up, can I call you? pls? _

_ like it's nothing bad or anything  _

_ ok it is _

_ But like. Bad for me. Not like I'm mad at u or anything. before u freak out. Its not u. im just not great rn _

_ I mean it's not like. AWFUL tho I'm not gonna do anything stupid I'm ok _

_ Ok thats a lie I'm not fuckin ok _

_ can I come over? _

_ im pretty sure ur asleep _

_ it would be weird if i came over while ur asleep right, like that's some edward cullen level shit right there _

_ fuck idk,, dont wanna be creepy and gross but also idk if I can be alone atm _

_ im coming over _

Connor's not sure exactly when he started texting like Evan, in these choked-up, sporadic bursts. One second-guessed thought balanced precariously on top of another, like the world's most uncomfortable game of Jenga. 

But he thinks it was probably around the time he decided that he was completely head over heels for Evan Hansen and would walk through fucking fire if he asked it of him.

Which coincided pretty closely with Connor's eighteenth birthday a month ago; with the contraband birthday party and the cupcakes and The T-shirt With Jared's Face On It.

And the key.

The key that now feels like it's permanently embossed into the fleshy part of Connor's palm. Like the leaf rubbing art you make in elementary school, in the fall. An imprint left behind in paraffin wax, rubbed and rubbed and rubbed until the veins pop through the paper.

Connor really ought to get a key chain for the damn thing. So he doesn't lose it. Or like...he could stick it onto the same chain as his own house keys.

But something about that feels too permanent, too set in stone. Connor's afraid of jinxing it, is the thing. He's got this irrational fear that the day he adds Evan's house key to his own keys will be the day Evan asks for it back.

Connor doesn't think he could take that. 

He's grown far, far too attached to this little hunk of metal over the past four weeks.

It's been strange, letting himself in and out of Evan's place like he belongs there. Hearing Evan call out from upstairs as he locks the front door behind him, a " _ hey" _ or " _ you're here" _ or " _ I missed you. _ " Or it's been Heidi, sometimes, wondering out loud which of  _ "her two boys"  _ is home, which does something funny to Connor's heart. 

It's been strange, watching his hoodies accumulate in one of Evan's emptier dresser drawers, and keeping a toothbrush in Evan's bathroom, and knowing that the left side of Evan's new double bed is Connor's Side.

Strange, and lovely. It all comes with this dense, solid warmth, this feeling of belonging, of being a square peg in a square hole.

There's nothing in the world quite like it, and Connor has quickly become an addict.

He has an addictive personality, after all, so it comes as no surprise, really. He just. Never expected to become addicted to the concept of Home.

Of being at home, and being in love.

It's that thought that drags him back into focus.

_ Evan loves him. Evan loves him back. _

So...so surely Evan's not going to be  _ too  _ angry if he sneaks into his house in the middle of the night without him knowing, right?

Connor thinks about going home.

About turning around and going back home, going up the stairs, and curling back up in his own empty bed.

There are  shadows there.

A thick fog of overwhelming hopelessness, of cold dread; freezer-burned with age, gnarled and leathery and waiting for him.

Connor  _ knows _ that this is all in his own head, and has nothing to do with his bedroom. He knows he's mentally ill. He knows.

He also knows where all the sharps are. 

Connor suddenly feels even colder. 

And before he can second-guess for even a moment longer the key is in the lock and Connor's wrist is twisting and the door is open and fuck you, Brain Shadows, not tonight.

Not fucking tonight, you fucking fucks.

He practically falls into the Hansen house, stumbling a little in his sudden urgency. He feels invisible eyes against his back, watching; like his own chemical imbalances are lurking on Evan's front porch and waiting to snatch Connor away.

Connor shuts the door as quickly as he can without slamming it.

Locks up behind him. 

Too late to turn back now.

Connor takes in a quiet little breath, then swallows it. He doesn't like how loud and wet his throat sounds, and for an absurd moment is convinced that the noise will have woken Evan up. Or Heidi. If Heidi's even home.

But the house is still and warm and quiet. 

Inky-dark, but not the same overwhelming dark of outside.  Safe-dark. Soft and granulated. Enclosed by four safe walls and solid, safe floorboards beneath Connor's boots.

Fuck, why the fuck did he wear  _ boots?  _ It's going to be near  _ impossible  _ to sneak upstairs without someone thinking he's a burglar or some shit.

As slowly and carefully as he can, Connor takes his boots off. 

Then creeps as stealthily as he can to the stairs, moving inch by inch in socked feet, feeling his way along walls in the dark. 

The house doesn't make a sound. It barely even breathes.

The house knows Connor. It trusts him.

Jesus Christ, Connor is losing his damn mind.

He manages to make his way up the stairs  _ without _ personifying anything else, quiet and focused and with  _ extreme  _ caution. 

He squeezes the key in his pocket. It digs into his hand again; a good hurt.

He's almost there.

Evan's bedroom door is ajar. Evan doesn't like it like that, Connor knows. He prefers either shut or open all the way, because if it’s open just a little bit it’s prime real estate for ghosts and axe murderers and creepy stalkers to peek through while Evan’s asleep.

Connor supposes he’s the creepy stalker right now.

Oof.

Connor squeezes through the gap in the door, then pushes it gently closed behind him.

Then turns around and looks.

Evan hasn’t stirred. Connor’s not sure whether he’s relieved or disappointed; his brain flip-flops wildly from one to the other for a moment, before settling on something different altogether - an aching loneliness, one that seeps in through Connor’s skin right down through to his bones.

It’s funny, how he’s not alone anymore and yet suddenly feels more isolated than ever. Evan feels like he’s so far away; locked behind a thick wall of sleep, with this vast distance of Evan’s bedroom between them.

Connor’s not going to wake Evan up; not if he can help it. He’d scare the fucking shit out of him. 

But he can do something about the second thing. The distance.  


Slow and silent, Connor inches towards Evan’s bed. He feels very much like a ghost as he draws nearer; a specter, destined to haunt Evan’s bedroom until the end of time. He wonders, if Evan were to wake up, if his hands would go right through him. Like ghosts in movies.

Maybe Connor  _ is  _ dead. Maybe he’s dead and he just doesn’t know it.

God, is he  _ dead? _

Connor stuffs his hand back into his pocket, and squeezes the key until he feels his hand beginning to bruise.

Not dead.

Not yet.

Connor peels back the covers, bit by bit, and eases himself into Evan’s bed. His muscles clamp up in protest at how slow he’s going; all these weird points of tension along his shoulders and back and thighs, all these awkward positions as he tries not to wake Evan up.

For a moment he’s once again struck by how fucking creepy this is.

How like... _ predatory _ , potentially.

Connor is disgusted with himself.

Evan’s bed is warm and welcoming and smells good, smells like Evan, and the covers are  _ so  _ soft and squashy and cozy, and Connor is the most disgusting fuck on the planet who Should Not Be Here. 

Evan is asleep. Evan didn’t see his messages. Evan didn’t  _ consent  _ to this. 

Evan shifts, and Connor freezes.

He rolls over, from one side to the other; so he’s facing Connor for the first time. 

Connor feels sick.

But Evan’s eyes don’t open. He lets out this soft sigh, out through his nose, and reaches a hand out in the direction of the left side of the bed.

Connor’s Side.

He seems not to know whether Connor is there or not. At first, anyway, because then his hand closes on Connor’s hoodie and grips on tight, scrunching a fistful of polyester like a lifeline.

Then he sighs again. The same gentle sigh, out through his nose.

This still seems a bit not okay, but Connor feels something in him relax, feels his muscles give up on their endeavor to lock up and twist all together, and he gives himself permission to look at Evan - just look, just let his eyes drift all over his face as he rests.

It’s hard to make out all the details in the dark. Connor knows they’re still there; the freckles and the pretty little eyelashes and the texture of his skin. But for now it’s just shapes; blurs, like the suggestion of Evan's face. A softly rounded jaw and the swell of bottom lip and the sockets of large, deep-set eyes. Connor wants to reach out and touch, to cup his cheeks and his chin in his hands, just so he can convince himself he's real, that this is really happening. Something about the night and the warmth and the silence has kind of split Connor away from reality, and he wants to come back.

But he doesn't dare. Doesn't lay a finger on Evan. Just watches.

He's pretty, even cloaked in darkness.

Maybe this is okay.

Maybe it isn't.

But regardless, Connor's heart is beginning to settle, and the chill in his bones is easing off. He's aware of his limbs, which is good. A good sign.

He's aware of Evan's fingers, gripping tightly onto his hoodie.

He's warm. His eyes start to sink.

And he manages to fall asleep in the familiar cocoon of Evan Hansen's double bed without even holding onto the key in his pocket.

  
  
  
  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's downright baffling, in retrospect, that the first thing Evan notices is the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is! Part two! 
> 
> I really enjoyed writing a sort-of role reversal for these two? When I first envisioned this whole thing my brain automatically went "YEAH Evan PANICKING bc he wakes up with a mysterious Connor is his BED ye ye ye" and then when I sat with it for a while I was like ".....wait....no."
> 
> Hope it's not dreadfully ooc! A bit self indulgent but this hc just wouldn't let me rest! 😂 Thanks again to slowsimplemelody for such a great concept! ❤️
> 
> Hope y'all are safe and well x
> 
> TW: mention of self harm scars, Connor flipping his shit about consent. I think that's all?
> 
> @theyellowestmustard

* * *

It's downright baffling, in retrospect, that the first thing Evan notices is the door.

In his defence, it always takes his brain a solid ten minutes to wake up properly. He usually spends a good amount of time in this weird haze of disconnection, of gauzy nothingness, squinting stupidly at the ceiling as it dawns on him that yes, Evan, you were asleep and now you are awake. This has happened approximately 6,700 times before, surely you are used to the wake-sleep cycle by now.

But Evan’s brain operates, in every regard, like a janky computer from the late nineties. Slow and clunky; except when you actually need it to work. Then it’s altogether unpredictable; it freezes up, crashes, overheats, does whatever the fuck it wants, and Evan’s the one left frantically slamming down control-alt-delete as he tries to regain some semblance of composure.

And like. It’s worse in the mornings.

So Evan’s dumb morning-brain notices the door situation before he realizes anything else is amiss.

It’s closed.

He knows for certain that it was open just a little when he fell asleep. Because he remembers staring at it, trying to will it shut with his eyes. Evan doesn’t like gaps in doorways. The door can be open. That’s fine. Or shut. But if it’s open just a little Evan swears he can see eyes in the gap, and the longer he looks at it the more malicious the eyes appear, until he can’t even get up and close it because he’s paralysed with nerves, staring owlishly at the door until he can muster up the courage to turn on a light. 

It’s childish, really.

But now the door is closed. And funnily enough, this doesn’t plant any seed of fear in him.

Maybe it’s that he’s still only half awake; warm and sinking with the familiar buzz of sleep in his brain. Maybe it’s that he assumes his mom has closed it, even though he’s pretty sure his mom isn’t even home.

Whatever the reason, Evan isn’t afraid.

Just cozy. 

Pressed snugly against Evan's back is a solid wall of warmth. 

The kind of warmth that only comes from something living and breathing. 

Human warmth.

And it doesn't hit Evan, at first, why he ought to find that disconcerting, if not straight-up alarming. His ramshackle brain is doing its whole ramshackle thing, sleepily blending last night into the night before and the night before that, smudging the timeline of the last few weeks together into an indecipherable mess.

Connor was here last night.

Obviously.

Evan remembers holding onto his hoodie in the night. Connor slept over.

Didn't he?

What day is it, even? Is it Thursday morning right now? Or Friday? 

Wait, no.

Saturday?

Saturday.

It's Saturday morning, because Evan had gone to therapy after school yesterday, and he and Connor had debated back and forth whether or not Connor was going to come over after Evan was done, but it was Larry's birthday and Cynthia wanted Connor home for dinner so Connor hadn't come over. 

Connor...

Connor hadn't come over.

Strangely enough, even as the realization begins to sink in, that there is a warm presence in Evan's bed that had _not_ been there when he’d fallen asleep, Evan feels weirdly at peace. His heartbeat stays at a steady, comfortable tempo, deep in the hollow of his chest rather than vibrating it's way up into the back of his mouth, and each breath is deep and even. Like, there's a slight sense of tension that creeps into his spine, because he doesn't know for _sure_ who is behind him. Who is in his bed.

Except that he does. 

He just _knows_.

Evan shifts slowly, rolls over, and is met with the back of a head; a mess of dark, silky curls peeking out from a blanket pulled all the way up.

Evan can only see about four inches worth of Connor Murphy's entire six-foot self, and not even his face, and it's enough to send gentle heat fluttering through his chest; soft ripples of affection, along with the urge to reach out and touch him.

It’s weird, being this close to Connor and _not_ touching him, honestly.

Connor is a very tactile person, is the thing, and that is not something that’s limited just to waking hours. Usually having Connor in Evan’s bed means long, bony limbs all woven around him, enveloping him in; legs wedged in between his and arms around his waist and a head lolling against his shoulder. Connor sleeps like a very loving baby giraffe, and it’s what Evan knows, what Evan is used to, and what he has grown to be _extremely_ fond of.

So there’s something almost a little alien about this; the way he sleeps rigid and stick-straight, back-to-back against Evan like he's rolled over during the night to actively try _not_ to touch him.

Evan doesn't understand it, and he definitely doesn't like it. He misses the weight and the contact and the feeling of being hemmed in. Of being wanted.

And like. Maybe Evan's reading too much into this, but. It seems like, last night, Connor had been missing it, too. After he’d flipped over. Judging by the way he'd pressed the entire length of himself against Evan's back, like he'd been seeking the comfort of Evan's presence in his sleep.

Evan wants to give him that comfort. That's all Evan ever wants.

He reaches out, and brushes gentle fingers over Connor's curls. Barely any pressure at all; just the faintest whisper of a touch.

Evan hadn't realized just how lightly Connor had been sleeping.

His entire body jolts violently at the contact, and a surprised little sound half-forms in his throat. He tosses his head in Evan's direction, blinking forcefully, with bloodshot, worried eyes between each blink. The tension in him only seems to worsen as some unknown realization sinks in through the thick film of exhaustion; his shoulders stiffen, his jaw locks, like he's bracing himself, and Evan does not like that one little bit.

"Hey," Evan soothes, as best he can, even though he's not entirely sure what's going on in Connor's head that he needs soothing. "Hey, it's okay--"

"I texted first," Connor blurts out. "I...I texted."

It's defensive, for sure. Sharp and cagey, like Connor is preparing for an attack only he can see coming. 

But there's something heartbreaking that peeks through the gaps left by Connor's pauses.

Anguish. And fear, too; lots of that. And an apology, almost.

Connor is scared, and Connor is sorry, and Connor has never been good at feeling either of those things so he's throwing himself head-on into self-preservation mode.

Not on Evan's watch.

"Okay," says Evan calmly, and it doesn't even take all that much effort to be calm, because he _is_. He's feeling strangely at ease, completely in control, and he vaguely wonders if his mom's been like. Slipping sedatives into his food or something. Because his pulse barely even trips. 

Evan is steady.

More than that, Evan suddenly feels _fiercely_ protective. 

Connor is Not Okay, and Evan is going to do absolutely _everything_ in his fucking power so that Connor knows he is safe.

“Okay,” Evan says again, gently, and Connor’s eyes flick to Evan’s nightstand, where Evan knows his phone is charging.

“You can check,” Connor insists. “You can check, I...twelve times. I texted twelve times.”

“I believe you,” says Evan. 

He doesn’t reach for his phone.

“You _should_ check,” Connor says, growing increasingly frustrated. He flicks the covers off of himself, sits bolt upright. His eyes are wide and wild. “You...I fucking _want_ you to check, I--”

“No,” says Evan.

Evan doesn’t need to check. He doesn’t need to read Connor’s texts, because Connor didn’t need to have sent them.

And Connor needs to understand that.

Connor needs to understand that when Evan told him _anytime_ , that he can come over _anytime_ , that there were no clauses or provisos or stipulations attached.

_Anytime_ does not come with fine print.

“You...what do you mean, _no_ , I-- this is completely _fucked_ , Evan. Like...I shouldn’t have fucking come over. That’s...that’s _fucked_. You didn’t even know I was here, and I snuck into your fucking _bed_. While you were _sleeping_. That’s...that’s fucking _awful_ , _I’m_ fucking awful and I shouldn’t’ve--shouldn’t’ve...and you’re probably completely creeped out and pissed off and you’ve have every fucking right to be, God, I just _let_ myself into your _house_ \--”

“Yours, too,” says Evan softly.

The hot foaming-up of words dies away.

There’s still something guarded about the way Connor holds himself, the residual specks of aggression, but in his eyes Evan sees the dam break.

Evan is astonished at how little it took to break it.

Connor is _really_ not okay.

Fuck.

“I...what?” 

“Yours, too,” Evan repeats. “Your house, too. You...Of course you let yourself in, why else would I--why would I have given you a key, if I didn’t want you to…?”

Connor shakes his head, lets it droop forward so his hair hides his face.

Evan knows this is calculated. Purposeful.

Connor doesn’t want Evan to see him cry.

“ _No_ ,” he spits out harshly, almost venomously. "That’s not--you were _asleep_ this time, you didn’t know I was _here_ \--”

“I don’t need to know,” Evan insists. “I...I need you to be safe.”

Connor doesn’t reply. He sits, shoulders slouched, his hands upturned and resting lifelessly in his lap. Evan looks at those hands; startlingly delicate, with feathery blue veins snaking up from his wrist to his palm. Obscured a little by thin, white lines like bars of a jail cell. 

Evan looks, and counts the tears as they begin to fall and land on his fingers.

“Connor,” Evan whispers. “Con... _were_ you safe last night?”

Connor responds with a noise that isn’t a word. A choked-up little noise like something swallowed back, something restrained.

It’s not an answer, and it is.

“Oh, Con,” says Evan, and then he’s reaching for him because he can’t _not_ , he’s grabbing Connor by the shoulders and pulling him in. Connor resists, for a moment; tries to squirm out of Evan’s arms, and then something in him weakens, crumbles, and he’s burying his face in Evan’s neck and winding familiar baby-giraffe limbs all around him.

He cries. Silently. If not for the shaking of his shoulders, Evan mightn't have even noticed.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, voice now faint and quivering. “I’m sorry, please don’t--don’t take the key back. I’m sorry, I--”

Evan feels like he’s been stabbed. Feels the presence of something cold and metallic lodged in his chest. It hurts.

“I wouldn’t--why would I do that?” he manages to choke out. “I would never just--Connor. Connor, of _course_ I’m not gonna take the key back. Connor, listen to me. I know you’ve got it in your head that you’ve like...done something bad? Something to do with consent, I dunno. I’m _telling_ you that you haven’t. You absolutely _have not_ , okay? You--you weren’t okay, and you came here. That's...that's what I want you to--to--like, otherwise what’s the _point_? What’s the point of giving you a key if you can’t use it to keep yourself safe?”

Connor is quiet. His shoulders are still shaking, and Evan rubs his back; firm, even strokes from the baby hairs in the back of his neck all the way down his spine and up again. Like he’s able to push all the panic right out of him, sweep it out from under Connor’s skin.

It takes a while, but Evan manages it eventually. 

Connor begins to sag against him, and the tremors wracking his frame ease off, bit by bit. He makes a vague, apologetic sounding little mumble; a _“hng”,_ almost a little awkward, like he’s trying to fill the silence but he’s not sure what to say.

Evan knows what to say.

“Hey,” Evan whispers. “We can talk later. About, like. Whatever was going on in your head last night. And what I can do to help. But let’s get some more sleep first.”

“I can go,” Connor offers, in a hesitant whisper, which Evan knows he’s only saying because he feels like it’s the right thing.

“Not allowed,” says Evan. “You’ve just spent an entire night in my bed and you, like. Barely even touched me? That’s like--like, illegal, honestly.”

Strangely enough, this makes Connor stiffen against him.

He pulls back a little, and the sight of his big, terrified eyes, inflamed and sore-looking from crying, makes something in Evan sink and break in one smooth motion.

“You know that’s--I _didn’t_ touch you. You know I didn’t touch you, right? While you were sleeping, I didn’t--I’d never--”

Honestly, the thought hadn’t even crossed Evan’s mind.

“I know,” says Evan patiently. "Come on. We're going back to sleep."

He pulls gently at Connor's arm, easing him back down to the mattress.

Connor resists.

"I'd _never_ ," he says again, with such desperate emphasis that it takes a great deal of self-control for Evan not to cry. "You know I'd...I would never fucking do _anything_ to you unless you like. Explicitly told me it was something you wanted. You--you fucking know that, right?"

"I know," says Evan. "Sleep."

"I just--you know I wouldn't--"

"You wouldn't," says Evan simply. Calmly. "Sleep time."

Evan lies back, gathering Connor up and nestling him into his side, with his head on Evan's shoulder and Evan's arm around him, fingers sinking into his hair. Connor sighs shakily, apparently bewildered that Evan isn't taking This Whole Thing as seriously as Connor's paranoia thinks he should be. 

It's almost funny, Evan thinks. Except it isn't. How he and Connor both think the exact same way; in droves of panic, senseless and unending, each spark of fear lighting up a new one. 

Only Evan's brain works in ice, stammering and cold, and Connor burns. Connor's fear is destructive and hot and loud. 

But it's the same thing, really. Under the surface, it's the same.

It takes a while for Connor to settle. He wriggles around a bit, trying to get comfortable, like there's electricity flowing through him that he's trying to shake off. Evan lets him fidget. He knows he’ll relax eventually.

And he does.

“S’not fair,” he mumbles after a while, with a kind of tired resignation in his voice. One hand fists tightly in Evan’s t-shirt. “This isn’t fair to you at all.”

“What do you mean?”

Connor lets out a little breath, and Evan keeps stroking his hair.

“Feels like I’m...like I’m _using_ you. Doesn’t feel right.”

“I don’t mind being your security blanket,” Evan murmurs, because it's absolutely true. He turns his head so he can press a gentle kiss to Connor’s forehead. “I _wanna_ be that. I wanna be that for you.”

Connor clings to Evan even tighter, and is quiet. 

Then, in a voice that’s almost lost in the empty space of Evan’s room:

“Security blankets never last. Kids...kids, like. Wear them down until they’re practically shredded to bits. Zoe had one. When she was really little. I remember. It was blue. Baby blue. Until it wasn’t. It turned gray and pilly and it frayed up and mom threw it away. Tried to replace it with an identical one, but Zoe knew. She knew it wasn’t the same one. She cried about it for weeks.”

Evan isn’t sure what Connor’s trying to say.

Connor doesn’t seem too sure either. He goes quiet again, buries his face against Evan’s shirt.

“Please don’t leave,” he croaks, in this tiny voice. “Please.”

“Of course not,” whispers Evan. 

“Even if...even if I don’t need a security blanket anymore? What then?”

“Then I’ll be whatever you need me to be,” Evan assures him. “Whatever you need.”

Evan feels the exact moment the ice in Connor’s bones melts away.

“Mine,” he says softly. “You can just...be mine, okay?”

“Okay,” says Evan and it is okay, and it’s more than okay. 

He finds the hand that’s gripping his shirt tight, and carefully pries Connor’s fingers apart. Connor lets go the second he realises what Evan’s trying to do, an apology already on his lips, which Evan brushes aside.

Evan’s house key slips out of Connor’s fist.

Another security blanket.

Evan says nothing. Ignores Connor’s shamed expression, his averted eyes.

He picks up the key, sets it down on his nightstand.

Then takes Connor’s hand in his own. Rubs at the zig-zagged indentations in his palm.

Until he can’t feel them anymore.


End file.
